


Suicide King

by alkazam



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Ableist Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gratuitous Pining, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Selectively Mute Corvo Attano, Slow Burn, dumb nicknames, or as slow as my patience lets it be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkazam/pseuds/alkazam
Summary: Corvo Attano, the low-born foreigner and only 19 years of age, is now the Royal Protector of the Empire of the Isles. James Kaldwin, heir to the throne, is the madman that chose him.
Relationships: Corvo Attano/Jessamine Kaldwin, Corvo Attano/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 31





	1. 4th of Rain, 1817

**Author's Note:**

> There are some datamined lines from the heart that have a male voice, implying at one point that Jessamine’s character was going to be an Emperor/King. This is an exploration of that, technically a genderbend but i’m going off of the personality from those heart lines so he’s a different character to me, Enjoy my little headcanons! btw the title is in reference to the King of Hearts card being nicknamed "suicide king", years of printing errors made the card look like the king is stabbing himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any glaring mistakes let me know please! I've never posted my writing anywhere before so feedback is appreciated (just don't be mean about it i'm sensitive)

The ceremony was a good month away, but with the maids blustering and Father’s advisors commanding all free time, you’d almost believe that James Kaldwin’s naming of his Royal Protector was a measly few days away. But honestly, all this ruckus for a bloated practice run of a real ceremony, meant to ease the heir into Imperial duties was beyond him. The commotion was irrational for a number of reasons, which will be stated here for clarity:

  1. Father (Emperor Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin I, his Imperial Majesty and leader of all the Isles besides) _already_ employs a perfectly good Royal Protector. Lord Alphus has done a fine job thus far, as evidenced by his and his father’s still-beating hearts. Even the hearty man’s quips about James being a terrible fencer don’t bother him the way it used to, when he was still early in adolescence and prideful about every little thing.
  2. James has had practice enough in courtly manners, never mind that some nobles are stubborn as oxen with the intelligence to match. His composure is an iron mask that cannot be breached, how else does a state survive, if a low-brow insult would be all it takes to send a monarch-to-be in a frenzy?
  3. There hasn’t been a real threat on the Kaldwins in years, with the boom in industry and Father’s uncanny ability to appease both parties endearing his family line to the common people and nobility alike.
  4. James knows, in his heart of hearts deep within the void of his chest, that no matter the final choice, his Royal Protector is to be a glorified minder. This person will be loyal to the Emperor first and ready to report a single hair out of place to his father. While Emperor Euhorn is a compromising man, he doesn’t always play fair.



That last point must be stressed, for it is the most pressing matter. While Father welcomes the new industrial age, he remains terribly traditional. There is always, _always_ something wrong to be pointed out, from the heir’s unwillingness to back down on an issue to his distaste of the use of military force. His mother understood him much better, before she departed for the Void. The Lord or Lady protector would have the explicit job title of following James around and cataloging his every breath. Alphus was at least apologetic about it but he still shared too many _opinions_ with Father to be truly trusted. Alphus was fine, but his own Royal Protector would have to be his closest advisor and confidante, or something of the sort. That likely left a group of low nobility and Watch officers as choices, all dreadfully boring and no doubt ready to bend to Father’s whims.

These reasons would all stand perfectly well under questioning. But really, it was true boredom that carried the royal heir’s roving feet to get lost in the mingling crowds of Dunwall Tower’s common visitors. The monotony of practicing the naming would have driven him mad otherwise. Raise the decorative sword to tap the shoulders of the prospective candidate kneeling before him and recite the decree:

_By Imperial decree I name thee Royal Protector to safeguard mine and my kin’s lives to serve a life tenure under the Kaldwin dynasty By Imperial decree I name thee Royal Protector to safeguard mine and my kin’s lives to serve a life tenure under the Kaldwin dynasty By Imp-_

Lost in his ire, the royal heir did not notice one of the entrance guards until too late, crashing right into the man. Well, boy, really, judging by the guard’s youthful and slightly familiar face (where had he seen him before?); The assessment only noted due to both parties faces being inches from one another, with the boyguard’s arms up, steadying James’ shoulders. It only lasted a second, but he cursed the lapse in judgement severely as James backed away as regally as possible given the circumstances. The boyguard looked unperturbed and James took the chance to study him more clearly. Tall. At least half a head taller than James himself. Tall and Tan skin, far too dark to be a Gristol native. Serkonan maybe, judging by the boyguard’s features (he was sure now, he’d seen him somewhere before). Curly brown hair tied back but far too long for regulation, with shorter strands framing his face while the tail brushed his collar. Regulation watch uniform but lacking a helmet (dangerous) with a scabbard at his hips but no gun, as was customary for lower watch ranks.

“My mistake. I didn’t see you there, but no harm done.” At this, the guard nodded and returned to position. The boyguard’s face turned stony as he returned to his post, and that was what it took for James to remember.

Some months ago, the Duke of Serkonos had come to Dunwall bearing gifts for Gristol (and some other reason too private for James to know of, as always) with the mission of peace. The whole affair was interesting and gave the heir a chance to speak to people not from his home country and gain valuable insight, and even Father was in an agreeable mood towards the end. Well, until Duke Abele had shown the last of his gifts, an offering from the jewel of the South. One of Serkonos’ own citizens and the youngest winner of the Blade Verbana thus far. Of course, as any time a foreign power is concerned, Father’s advisors were divided on what to do with the man. Whether to send him back with a ‘thank you, but no’ or to keep him in the palace to watch his movements. Even Alphus was serious in the threat that this swordsman of the Grand guard posed. But for once, all were in agreement over one thing: This man could not be trusted. In the end, Father employed him in the palace guard and James hadn’t seen or heard of him since then. Well, until now, that is.

“Boyguard! You’re the swordsman from Serkonos!” James pointed in astonishment. He’d tried very hard to find this person to talk to him after the Duke left, but couldn’t catch hide or hair of him in the aftermath while court decided how to proceed. Now the swordsman scowled and raised his brow, no doubt questioning the nickname, but gave a curt nod. Why was he scowling? Surely he hasn’t stared for that long... “Void, I can’t remember your name for the life of me..” James bit his lip in concentration.

_… Carlos? Carmen? Cornelius?_

He looked at the guard for an introduction but simply got a closed off expression in return as the guard looked straight ahead in concentration. “Hey, it’s rude to ignore people, you know.” The guard looked back at him in annoyance and moved to grab something from inside his coat, until a voice called out. A voice that made James grit his teeth.

“My lord, the Emperor has been looking for you everywhere.” Alphus bounded over, his bald head shining spectacularly under the chandeliers. Did he polish his head today? He couldn’t slip a word in before Alphus had his hand on the heir’s shoulder steering the two back into the heart of Dunwall Tower.

“My apologies, Alphus. I wasn’t aware my presence was needed to pick out the napkin colors for my naming ceremony.” James gave in lieu of an actual explanation for his disappearance.

“Oh Lord James, you must care for me too much to even consider anyone else for the position, but an Emperor’s duties are-“

“Not to be ignored or shied away from. I’m well aware, Alphus.”


	2. 1st of Wind, 1817

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James: haha you come here often?  
> Corvo, writing: I work here

He feels a pinch on his right side and can’t suppress the flinch that comes.

“Stay _still_ , my Lord!” A stern seamstress rubs her eyes behind the spectacles while James lets a small sigh escape before setting his face carefully blank. Memorizing a speech? Doable, he’s always been good with information. Appearing in court? Easy, few truly understand politics like he does. But having to wear a ridiculous high collar such as this? It might honestly be the end for him. The material chafes and makes him look like a Tyvian prince (not the prince from the popular theater play, mind you) straight out of a fairy tale. James is half expecting to have to ride in on a white horse, the way he’s being dressed up.

“I’ve been here an hour, Melinda. Please tell me we’re close to being done.” Melinda scoffs and waves him away.

“I can work with these measurements, just don’t go taking _any_ of it off yourself after your naming ceremony! I won’t have another vest ripped because you were too quick to wait for a maid’s assistance.”

“None of it? Not even the gilded Void-forsaken _cape_? Outsider’s a-“ Melinda levels an unamused look at him, “-eyes. I can’t walk in this, much less be able to jump out of a window once the festivities start.” He’s good at social appearances, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get repetitive after a while.

“That’s the idea.” she returns easily.

“The ceremony will take place four stories up, my Liege.” Alphus chimes in. Father must be in a meeting with the Spymaster for him to bother watching James twitch and wince for the past hour on a raised platform while maids flit about.

“I’m well aware.” James sardonically returns, which brings forth a bark of laughter from Melinda.

He likes the Tower staff. Most can tease him and sometimes offer advice when they realize James won’t throw the help out for looking at him funny. He’d been raised by some of the senior staff like Melinda, even. And no matter what Alphus or anyone believes, that is a _good_ thing, a nation’s people should never be afraid of their ruler. The valuable insight he gains from talking to these people helps, never mind that any butler roaming the halls has more personality, more integrity than a head of state could ever possess.

-

Once Melinda peeled the pinned jackets and embellishments off of James’ form, he was free for the afternoon (a particularly nosy overseer had suggested he spend some time in the chapel, which went readily ignored) and took to the gardens with a good book. Free of the heavy material, he was in a humble poets shirt and black vest, much more suitable for the surprisingly warm weather. The plan for the next few hours was to become fully engaged in his mystery novel until the young heir spotted a lone guard next to the gate before the pavilion. A guard with no helmet... _It couldn’t be._

But it was. As James approached, the nameless form became a tan face and brown hair, curling slightly and blowing in the breeze customary of this time of year. James wasn’t so naive to believe the stars aligned for a second meeting, but it did feel suspiciously too good to be true that he’d run into the boyguard and have the free time to talk to him. Best not to look a gift horse (or rather a gift swordsman) in the mouth, he thought while abandoning the search for a quiet bench in favor of learning more about the boyguard.

“Hello good sir!” James called while walking (very naturally and leisurely, he made sure) up to the target of interest. “Fancy a bit of a chat with me?” The guard looked understandably surprised, since the nobles who usually roamed the grounds would rather pretend the guards weren’t there. James lifted his hand up in an offer to shake. “James Kaldwin. Now, may I finally get your name? I promise not to hold a grudge as long as you indulge me.” His iron mask slipped a bit for a smile to come through at the guard’s reaction to his name. The boy’s eyes turned to saucers for just a second before he quickly fell into a deep bow, torso perpendicular to his legs. “Pfft-No, none of that. May we just start with your name?” He hesitantly lifted his head up and saw James’ polite smile waiting. After a moment he straightened fully and pulled a small leather bound book out of his coat. He wrote a quick sentence and offered James the book.

_My name is Corvo Attano, your majesty._

Cosmos help him, he was such a jackass. He’d assumed the boy was just quiet when the boy simply bowed after Duke Abele’s introduction, but to think he couldn’t speak, and James had called him _rude_ for it... He still had so much to learn if he was going to be any good as Emperor.

“Ah, I remember now. Well, Corvo, would you mind telling me how life has been in Dunwall Tower?”

-

Supper was ready by the time James returned inside, the chill brought by the month of Wind seeping into his bones. But even Dunwall’s ever-present shitty weather couldn’t dampen his spirits. He’d found out _so much_ about the boy, Corvo Attano, in just a few hours. Well, mostly about his uneventful patrols and goading squad members, but still. James would ask a question, and Corvo would write a quick answer in his little book and pass it over. Sometimes he’d ask something broad and Corvo would take a few minutes, chewing on his lip and forming a response. He wasn’t keen on sharing anything personal, and that was fine. It was the most fun James has had in a long time, walking through the rose bushes and watching Corvo bluster and try to act professional around him. James had even shown Corvo that a simple neck bow to a noble above one’s station would suffice. The mortified expression on his face at hearing he could’ve offended James was amusing, and after assuring him it was fine he couldn’t stop thinking about the guard’s relieved expression. His soft brown eyes darted to the left as his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and a soundless puff of air slipped through his lips. James tried not to think about how he was close enough to hear the air whistle through Corvo’s lips.

Corvo didn’t volunteer an explanation for the notebook and James did not inquire, he figured if and when the swordsman was willing to share that information he would. Scaring Corvo off after their first encounter wouldn’t do.

“A fine evening isn’t it, James?” Ah, seemed Father would be joining him for dinner, then. For a young child any attention from his busy father was treasured, but James learned early on that the Emperor taking time out of his day meant either a scolding or a lecture. James quietly mourned his good mood and steeled his nerves. The heir took a seat at the other end of the long dining table and folded his hands together on the fine wood. It took schooling his face into impassivity to realize that he’d been smiling. Shit.

“As good as it can be, with the winter months fast approaching.” His father nodded passively while food was brought to the table and the food tasters arrived. It was hard to tell what mood Father was in, whether it be a ‘how has life been, my dear firstborn’ or a ‘what gallivanting have you done in my absence, you wretched thing’ mood, but James knew his father’s tells. Alphus was dining with them, for one, which was a good thing. The man was fiercely loyal yet almost always conveniently absent whenever Father disciplined or yelled at his son. He must not like playing peacemaker all that much after the position opened up following his mother’s departure. Once after a particularly bad argument years ago, Alphus had come to comfort a crying James with some ox shit about how much stress his father was under, while James could only think about how much he wanted to rip the Royal Protector’s thick mustache off. It isn’t healthy to hold a grudge, but everyone has their vices.

“As you’re aware, your naming ceremony is but a few days away,” Alphus began, while Father continued,

“And with that, comes a host of events for the day. The speeches, trials, choosing, blessings, not to mention the celebration. I’m aware you feel more than prepared for it, James, but this will mark the true beginning of your political career just as my naming ceremony did for me. This isn’t some young maiden’s debutante ball, but a real responsibility that will be a premonition of your rule for many years to come.” James tightened his hands. Neither of them had touched their food yet. James inhaled deeply and broke eye contact, choosing to focus on his father’s golden hair instead of those blue eyes they both have. Wandering gaze.

“I’m aware of it’s importance-“

“No, you aren’t. You’d rather run off to indulge fiction novels or chase... other fancies.” _What?_ “You have intellect, son, and that has carried you thus far.” Father _interrupted_ him. “But I refuse to pass this empire off to you if you aren’t serious about ruling it.” James breathed in and out once, very deeply. He’s lived 10 years dealing with the Emperor without his mother, he can handle this. Alphus was looking paler by the minute. Maybe Father hadn’t planned this.

“I _am_ serious about becoming Emperor. My priorities are just above coddling the noble families.”

“And when the treasury runs dry because you refuse to listen to the upper class? What if Morley decides to rebel again? If the High Overseer deems you a heretic!?”

“Taxes are not optional and they must learn that! Negotiations can be made before the entire Navy must be sent out to kill dissatisfied citizens of the Empire!” They were both shouting now, but unfortunately while his father had a controlled yet deadly volume to his tone, James’ shouts felt hysterical and childish to his own ears. “And the Abbey would need a _damn good_ case to press charges against the highest office in the Isles! What more must you test me on!?”

“Your Majesty, maybe it’s best we table this for when your health is-“ Alphus tried to urge Father to calm himself to no avail.

“No, there’s clearly something he wants to say.” Father fixes his gaze from his Royal Protector back onto James, who is now feeling brave enough to glare back. “Out with it. What are you really thinking?”

“I’m ‘thinking’ that your obsession with pleasing the aristocracy above all is cancerous to our nation!” An odd thing happened. While James was now standing with his fists clenched on the gold-trimmed placemat, the Emperor’s face relaxed into a calm exterior.

“One day your stubbornness will be the death of you.” Father’s voice was level again, but the dangerous edge made James feel as if his father shouted straight into his ears.

“If I die protecting my citizens, so be it.”

James didn’t spare a glance at the two men to see if they had any more to say before storming out of the dining hall, food untouched and spirits dashed.


	3. 5th of Wind, 1817 (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where james and jessamine diverge as characters and why I don’t really see him as a genderbend. I love jess but picking corvo to spite her dad was a weird move (but I mean 12 year olds are unpredictable, which is why the age for picking a royal protector was bumped up to 18 in this fic)

‘Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.’

This is a phrase the Emperor offers time and time again. Advisors, committee members, and one royal heir have all had the gracious honor of having this river krust pearl of wisdom given to them, because apparently all it takes to run a country is a bedtime. It holds even less weight than usual in James’ eyes today, when he had to rise at nearly 4:30 am for preparations to be made. The cold morning air permeates Dunwall Tower and it’s stone walls, and James can feel it clawing through the layers of heavy ceremonial garb as he sits in Father’s office. Royal Spymaster Brimsley stands at attention, listing off intelligence and etiquette and other concepts James can only partially listen to. Her subdued voice floats in the edges of his mind while James watches a sparrow land on one of the windowsills. The small thing hops a few times and launches itself back into the cloudy sky. What a brave little bird.

Errant Mind.

“Lord James!” A hand smacks the wood of Father’s writing desk in front of him. To James’ credit, he doesn’t so much as flinch when Spymaster Brimsley’s bony hand connects with the dark Mahogany. Her voice is a different kind of steel than Father’s. Where the Emperor is a razor, a concealable tool meant to help but can harm, Brimsley is a slaughterhouse chainsaw, a clanging and barely restrained weapon (he’d seen a picture of one in a book, it looked like a dastardly thing). “You would do well to at least _appear_ as if you are paying attention to matters of state, child.” James pulls his blue eyes from the hand in front of him and easily returns the old woman’s glare. His iron mask is reinforced and infallible in her obvious attempts at trying to faze him. They’ve been in here since 5 am and the clocktower chimed at least twice already, his patience mustn’t wear before the ceremony even starts. The Emperor heaves a great sigh at their staring contest.

“That will be all, Brimsley.” Father waves her out with little attempt at looking regal right now.

“Understood, your Majesty.” She inclines her head and makes to leave. “... Good luck, Lord James.”

“Thank you, Spymaster.” James doesn’t even try to sound grateful for the luck, he hears the well wishing for what it really is: A warning to not fuck anything up today.

James makes to leave as well, but a hand raises to stop him. _Outsider take him, what else is there to cover? Is his gait a centimeter off?_

“Son, I want you to know how proud I am of you.” And that is what breaks the mask for a moment, surprise coloring James’ features as his father chuckles. “I mean it. Today marks your entry into the public sphere, and you’ve handled everything thus far with more patience than most would.” Father adopts a faraway look, now. “Beatrix would have loved seeing you like this, you know. Dressed up to the nines and walking into court with that sour face she always adored.”

“... I inherited that from you.”

“So you did. You may leave, your audience is set to arrive soon and I’m sure Alphus’ men are done setting up for the trials.” And with the dismissal, James leaves the office with his cape dragging on the ground and confusion clawing up his throat. The bittersweet feelings that his mother’s memory dredge up threatening to choke him.

“And James?”

“Yes, Father?”

“Choose wisely. You have the Empire’s eyes on you today.”

-

“Are you sure you’re ready, my Lord?” Alphus looked flustered, his face pinched and red like a young babe seconds from crying out. What could set him off so much? He was fine last night...

“Alphus, if you ask me that one more time I’ll rip my hair out and jump into the Wrenhaven.” James didn’t even look in Alphus’ direction, smoothing down his puffed sleeves and straightening the starched white collar. Contrary to the Royal Protector, James was in a state of numb calmness, face in hard neutrality. The cape was growing on him, honestly. It’s weight felt like a teal and gold anchor that would keep him from floating away and it made his silhouette appear larger, more imposing than his short stature offered.

“Understood, my Lord.” Alphus motioned to a man who ran off to signal the heir’s entrance. Moments later he heard the man through the doors, shouting James’ title into the chamber for all to hear.

Too soon the doors were opened by Alphus and a maid as he stepped into the chamber, a gaudy audience room with an arched ceiling, full of milling nobles standing up and candidates straightening into position. James breathed in and out once, deeply.

“Good morn. Today we convene for my choosing of a Royal Protector, who will safeguard my life and serve the crown for the years to come. It is a momentous occasion and I am truly humbled to see all of you in attendance.” He projected his voice and regarded everyone in the room. Clapping sounded out as James descended the marble stairs and joined the Emperor on a raised podium with two ornate, high-backed chairs. The ceremonial sword at his hip bounced with each step.

“Yes, we are all here to commemorate the occasion and strengthen the Kaldwin dynasty with the presence of a Royal Protector, who acts as much a protector as a deterrent to those who seek harm unto the Kaldwins.” That was Alphus speaking, to the left of the Emperor while James stood to the right. “Now, begin with the introductions.” This was everyone’s que to take a seat as James only half-listened to the rambling of titles and family lineage belonging to the proud men and women in front of him. Alphus had been the first introduced, followed by other boring nobles and high-ranking officers.

“The twelfth and final candidate, Lord Corvo Attano of Serkonos.” James suddenly snapped into focus at the sound of a familiar name, noting how everyone else in the room made varying degrees of surprised reactions at the final introduction. Even the announcer sounded unsure of the words he was speaking. “Youngest winner of the Blade Verbena thus far at sixteen, and personally commended by the Duke Theodanis Abele himself for exemplary service while in the Serkonan guard.” Corvo must’ve been a late addition to the roster, as James reviewed and memorized the candidates days ago and wouldn’t have simply glossed over Corvo’s name among them. He wasn’t royalty, the fumbling manners from less than a week ago gave Corvo away immediately. So how did he end up here? James quieted his curiosity, this is unprecedented and he knows. A non native, a young boy from another Isle with little more than a year in the Watch ranks, no estate or inheritance to the Attano name, as far as he knows. But he is a face among the crowd that is both new and familiar, and James now has to keep himself from smiling when just a few minutes ago he was feigning alertness and counting the floor tiles. The heir was unabashedly staring at Corvo now, knowing everyone else was too preoccupied to notice the heir’s fascination. Corvo was wearing finer clothing, poised with that stony expression that ignored everyone’s stares, with a great dignity only found in marble sculptures.

Upon their second meeting Corvo had spent most of their time together looking unsure, as if he’d been given arms just yesterday and still didn’t know how to hold them when they stood idle. The noble wanted very much to hold his hands and assure him it was fine (What he would assure Corvo of, James himself did not know).

Now Corvo knew what to do with his hands. With the trials beginning under heavy scrutiny and golden chandeliers, he was a whirlwind in motion, graceful as a dancer with the footwork to match. If James’ swordsmanship could be called a child’s half completed finger paint project, Corvo’s is a large mural with fresco paint embedded into a wall, depicting the endless Void in motion, running water and life in every elegant brushstroke. Corvo gave no pretense of pride as he mowed through the other candidates, leaving them in the dust. It was obvious the others underestimated him, and soon he was going up against Alphus. James admitted he was as worried for Corvo as he was enthralled by his movements. Alphus wasn't a Royal Protector for nothing, he has a stature more bear than man, with brute strength and overpowering technique. James found himself unsure who would win, and by the tightening of Father’s shoulders and the quiet overtaking the room, everyone felt the same way.

Alphus stepped into the middle stage where marble transitioned to light wood. He fell into a defensive stance, which Corvo mirrored as the two circled one another, searching for an opening. Alphus saw one, and lunged after the boy who dodged at the last second as the fight exploded into motion. If it was hard to follow Corvo before, now it was impossible as the pair devolved into a flurry of noise and sparks with their blades connecting again and again. But Alphus did something funny with his elbow, almost too fast to catch, and Corvo’s sword was ripped out of his hold. James felt more than heard the room breathe a sigh of relief. That the current Royal Protector could have been beaten by a foreign upstart must have been too daunting a prospect. James realized he had been quietly rooting for Corvo when his brows pulled together for a moment, before smoothing back down.

“End. Victory to Lord Alphus!” A smattering of applause and levity swept the audience while both father and son were left stewing in complex emotions, though they hid it well. James mourned Corvo’s win streak, he would have loved to see his beautiful form knock Alphus down a peg. But there was no disappointment, only a warm pride for the boy’s accomplishments.

(In the quiet of his mind the Emperor disapproved of Royal Protector Alphus’ methods. However, the boy couldn’t be allowed to win. Court would be in a frenzy for months if he got any closer to the title, so he let it be.)

-

James approached the line of candidates, Alphus at the very end. After all these years, James had to admit that Alphus was a member of the family, both in good and bad. It will be odd not having the man chasing after him anymore, but.

He knew his choice, no matter what Brimsley or Father felt. And so it was interesting watching everyone’s expressions as they assumed James was making a beeline for his father’s Protector, only for the heir to stop just short of Alphus.

“Corvo Attano. Please kneel.” Corvo himself probably looked more surprised than everyone else in the chamber but did as he was told, albeit with shaking knees. James ignored Alphus’ abashed stare and recited his speech.

“By Imperial decree, I name thee, Lord Attano, Royal Protector. To safeguard mine and my kin’s lives and to serve a life tenure under the Kaldwin dynasty. Do you accept this responsibility?” On one knee, Corvo looked up from the tiled floor with pursed lips and wide eyes to James’ polite smile, waiting. He slowly nodded, which broke the spell upon their spectators as the room exploded with sounds. Most gasping, another (Brimsley) grabbing James’ arm, Alphus and Father digesting the unexpected turn, and the other candidates loudly voicing complaints. But it was all in the background for James, who looked at the whirlwind of a man. Corvo Attano, who would be his.

Royal Protector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James: be m(y royal protector)ine <3


	4. 5th of Wind, 1817 (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally a short chapter but then the pining had to come in and double the word count
> 
> also there’s a hiram burrows diss in here but it’s very vague lol

Things calmed down a bit after his choosing, though it took a great deal of James defending his choice for court to be sated. Disorder must be the natural way of things to these jaded, old Gristolians. Are their hearts dead and cold inside their rib cage to be so unfeeling to anyone different? Spymaster Brimsley was close to bursting a blood vessel at the new development, which was funny. Father remained imperiously quiet while James made his case, which was less funny but felt like the heir’s first real chance to prove his worth as a ruler. Court knew James to be radical and unpredictable compared to his father’s politics, but to the extent he was willing to diverge from the Emperor, ‘for some foreign commoner no less’, was a surprise to all.

_He’s a terrific swordsman he’s a chance to foster good relations between the Isles he’s a learning experience for everyone he’s a new perspective from across the sea beyond even Dunwall’s poorer districts_

_._

_he’s the fading sun on your back after a long day he’s a lightweight sword in your steady grip he’s awkward mannerisms and deadly technique all wrapped up in a tall teenager he’s a boy my age who’s easy on the eyes when I could never have any friends after my wretched father decided who I was before I even knew for sure and who is he to decide i’m too impious for the throne when he spent years fooling around with the kitchen maids instead of sparing a thought for his sickly wife-_

But he’d learned, no, _adapted_ to live around Father’s rules.

Because the Tower is a bastion of faith in the seven strictures due to the Abbey of the Everyman’s position as a state-recognized religion, a blessing was observed. Everyone fidgeted during the Abbey’s blessings; It is a given that all but the most pious usually dislike sitting for prayer. Nevertheless it is a due to be paid as members of high society, No matter that most in attendance spend their days going against the strictures. Alphus falls on the more faithful side, while Brimsley tends to see things as... less than black and white (James swears he found a singing charm of bone in her office when he was a child, but he doesn’t hate the old woman so much as to condemn her a heretic to the Abbey’s whims. The charm whispered to him, promising to reveal murderous intentions towards it’s holder, and the tingling in James’ hand from touching the thing lingered for days.)

But it was over soon enough, and with incense still fading in the air, everyone convened in one of the great halls for a feast and celebration. Which meant he could finally look at Corvo, talk to him. See him take out his small notebook to write in while biting his lip in concentration. Corvo will be so focused he won’t notice a stray lock of hair fall over his face that will inevitably get tucked away once he’s done writing (but not too soon that James doesn’t feel an irrational urge to reach out and tuck the curly strands behind Corvo’s ear and cup his jaw and)

The prospect of hurling himself into the Abyss isn’t truly irrational after the day he’s had. Or at least laying down in a warm bed.

James found the other boy near the buffet, munching on an apricot tartlet and looking like he was trying very hard to blend into the wall he was leaning against. James couldn’t blame him, he himself must have a permanent crease between his eyebrows after everything. The heir wanted to talk to Corvo the minute the great hall opened, but royal duties and etiquette dictate he greet and converse with all of his guests. So, he did. James couldn’t be a hair out of place lest someone cry insanity and have his decision thrown out. It was a paranoid thought, yes, but it holds water when concerning the nest of vipers that is noble politics.

“... Hi.” A lackluster greeting, but James is tired. Corvo startled and hastily bowed (the way James showed him) and took out his book.

_Hello your majesty. Are you okay?_

Corvo had a tendency to avoid eye contact, or look away completely after handing his notebook over to James. He’d done so last time they spoke but it felt much more intensified now, with the swordsman wringing his hands and keeping his jaw clenched. Was it caused by the sheer number of people around them or was it lingering effects from the heavy suspicion from court? They’d demanded Corvo speak during the debate, calling him a sneak and a coward, which only made him clam up more. James had stepped in, obviously, and it was never so hard to keep his voice level. The heir was sure his father noticed the effort with which James was keeping himself from yelling, but it didn’t matter in the moment when he was already occupied with shutting down any slander against Corvo.

“Haha. Ha. Why wouldn’t I be? Enjoying the party?” It sounded fake even to James and by Corvo’s unimpressed look he hadn’t done a very good job of selling the facade. “Oh, well. I’m a little tired... but that’s normal for me. I’m more worried about you, are you alright? They said some nasty things about you back there, all blasphemous, untrue, and downright offensive, obviously! But hurtful, nonetheless.”

_It was unexpected. Everything that happened I mean. But it was entertaining seeing you yell at everyone on my behalf. Thank you for that._

The space before ‘unexpected’ was crossed out, likely attempts from Corvo trying to decide on the right word to fit. He furrowed his brows and added another line.

 _You haven’t even known me for that long and yet still defended my character._ _Thank you._

“Yelling is a bit of a stretch, but I speak my mind when I see fit and had a great deal to say today, especially concerning someone I see as a friend. Besides, what kind of future ruler would I be to let a close-minded court spout it’s hatred so blatantly?” Corvo huffed a strained laugh, a quick and silent thing that may as well be music to James’ ears after today. The pair looked at one another, both trying to decide how to proceed. More accurately, James’ blue eyes studied the hints of fatigue all over Corvo while the latter boy studied the far wall.

“...”

“Listen Corvo, i’m sorry.” At the boy’s questioning look, eyes dragging vaguely towards him, James continued. “Being picked as Royal Protector is a big responsibility, not to mention the scrutiny you’ve fallen under, and all the work. _Void_ , there is a lot of work. I should’ve consulted you beforehand, but didn’t even know you’d be in the room today. I just saw you and knew you’d be the best choice for my sanity but I completely understand if you want to withdraw from the position-“ Corvo stopped James’ rambling with a hand on the shorter man’s arm, stilling his thoughts. The touch was light and ended just as quick as it began, an obvious attempt to get James to stop talking. James took the hint while Corvo wrote something down and passed it over.

 _It’s_ ~~ _fine_~~ ~~_okay_~~ _your choice. I’m honored you picked me._

With Corvo and his warm brown eyes smiling down at him like that, it was almost believable. But James is too smart to fall for it. Especially when Corvo looks so _tired._

“One thing I ask is that you speak your mind around me, I’ve never lied to you and don’t intend on starting now, I expect the same courtesy.” His voice sounded too authoritative, as if he was back in court in debate, so with effort James loosened his tone and tried for something softer. “How else will I know if something is wrong?” Corvo looked conflicted for a moment, like he planned to deny it, but sighed out of his nose and started writing again.

_It was surprising and scary, being chosen I mean, even being in that room with the Emperor and all. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the roster but my squad captain ~~is an ass~~ penned me in his place after he sprained his ankle during our spar. He said something about ‘humbling’ me in front of the nobles so I didn’t really know what to expect. But you seem nice and out of everyone here, i’m glad you’re the one i’ll be protecting. I’m unaware if I meet the qualifications for the position, but I want to try anyway. Your majesty. _

And now James couldn’t suppress his smile, at Corvo’s humble nature and some other feeling entirely, maybe excitement? giddiness? A fire ignited in his breast at the thought that, mere hours ago, the people around them hurled insults at Corvo’s character and home country. They phrased it as if the man would kill James in his sleep as a service to Serkonos, a country of savages willing to employ any sadistic mute for nefarious means. They’d even insinuated the man couldn’t understand Gristolian language. Idiots, the lot of them.

“Well. Thank you for telling me, Corvo. How exciting, that you’ll now be the boss of the boss of your squad caption who is most definitely _not_ an ass.” Void, Corvo was _blushing_ now, likely embarrassed about his slip up yet unknowingly sending James into a frenzy. Little cherubs wrapped in white silk floated around Corvo’s head, little wings and all. James sneered at them as they tittered about the royal heir’s bleeding heart hidden behind an iron mask. “But enough about that. We should be celebrating your promotion!” James looked around for a moment, grabbing two champagne flutes off a passing server’s tray and passing one to the taller man. Corvo held up his flute and pointed at James with a shy smile. “No no, we’re not cheering me or the Kaldwin line or whatever else.” Under the lowlight with crumbs and a growing smile on his face, curled brown hair cupping his jaw, Corvo looked positively ethereal. James held up his flute as well, smiling at the man he’d be trusting with his life.

“To us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was gonna end with Corvo helping James take off the ceremonial robes but I like where it ended so just imagine a missing scene of James trying not to breathe while Corvo tries to figure out how rich people clothes work (he doesn’t, they have to wake Melinda up at 2 am and get a lecture for it)


	5. 16th of Seeds, 1819

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently heliocentrism was accepted as the basis for our solar system in 1822 (so close...) so let's pretend the Abbey accepted it a few years earlier than the Church did.  
> Also! This fic will probably have less than 10 chapters,,, I think. And it'll end either with Emily's birth or the beginning of dh1, if anyone was wondering about a timeline. Edit: so that was a lie

“Bodyguard is only a letter off from boyguard, you know. Maybe it was predestined that I would choose you.” James had said, days after the ceremony. He received an quiet chuckle from Corvo at that, and no matter how hesitant it sounded it spelled progress for their bond as Ruler and Protector. But that was all it would be, he reminded himself. He’s seen enough of Emperors taking advantage of his staff for the thought to not be at least a little nauseating,

 _but everyone has their vices, really_ , he tells himself at night, with the candles long burnt out and only the wind outside to stop his thoughts. He is an Emperor-to-be. Not some lovestruck maiden in a dime novel, yearning for the touch of her knight in shining armor to ignite the roaring embers of love between the handsome and mysterious man alongside a beautiful lady trapped in circumstance of birth or station or.

Well.

In the months after his decision the pair barely saw one another, likely Brimsley and Alphus’ doing. Spymaster Brimsley insisted on vetting him to clear any suspicions, and Alphus (who has tried exceptionally hard to seem supportive of James’ decision) trained Corvo to be a true Royal Protector. Even though everyone tried their damned hardest to keep the royal heir and his Protector separated, they still snuck out to walk in the gardens at midnight, hid in the royal library’s many dusty bookshelves during afternoons, and observed too many sunsets to count next to the water lock. On one memorable occasion, Corvo had brought his charge to one of the roofs via climbing while James clung to Corvo the entire time for fear of falling into the unforgiving waves. It would’ve been enjoyable having Corvo’s arm clasped tight around James’ waist had he not been very afraid of falling off of the waterlock roof.

It was hard _not to_ grow close friends with the twin challenges they faced and confided in each other because of, and after months of grueling challenges, long interrogations, and a royal heir complaining heavily on his Protector’s behalf, Corvo officially gained his title.

Now, more than two years since the naming, a 20 year old James and 21 year old Corvo finally reached a comfortable arrangement. Corvo takes his job maybe too seriously sometimes, but it is endearing for James to watch him check over rooms and window ledges before letting his charge enter. The Royal Protector officially spends most of his day following James and his busy schedule while Alphus guards his father and attends to security meetings and important matters of state (Corvo had balked at the idea of leading and coordinating such large groups before James assured him that head of the City Watch and Dunwall’s generals handled that; Alphus just liked the workload because “A Driscol man who can’t pull his own weight is as good as dead,” apparently.) To think James was so averse to the idea of a Royal Protector, until the person in question was someone he could actually talk to. Well, not really speak.

A big change the Tower had to adapt to was communication. James found out early on that Corvo can communicate without writing, through signage, a language James became very eager to learn. Corvo could teach him the alphabet and some words, but he was hardly a comprehensive guide. Their time going through the tower’s bookshelves had awarded them with a book on signs which helped James along greatly. Some of the Tower staff had noticed their crusade and joined in as well to sign with Corvo, which surprised the man greatly.

-

On his balcony with a bottle of Fig Wine and fruit to share under the stars, they felt no rush to really _do_ anything besides enjoy each other’s company. They were actually allowed to be around each other now, after all.

James had read in fiction novels that a part of Serkonan culture included ritual bloodletting on special carpets for pleasure, and asked Corvo for confirmation. He gave a full belly laugh, the kind that left Corvo making indiscernible noises with tears in his eyes, and asked if the authors happened to be Gristol-born. He then explained that they mostly laid on the blankets and pillows on the ground for fun, indulging in wine and fruits with loved ones under any occasion (but that hardly encompassed even a fraction of Serkonan celebration traditions, Corvo had signed, citing the boisterous weddings he’d been to as a child.) Corvo then had to stop James from dragging his entire bedspread to the balconies to replicate even a bit of the other man’s home life. The Royal Protector ended up procuring an authentic Karnakan quilt from one of the international markets by the docks, the material much sturdier and colors far more vibrant than anything to be found in Dunwall Tower. James had traced the flowers and mandalas the night Corvo gave it to him, book left in favor of relaxing his mind. The quilt wasn’t a rich Tyvian style or Morleyan royal velvet, and yet it was unique and beautiful in it’s own right, twisting vines and interwoven stems in the design. Corvo had said these were his sister’s favorite designs and it became a treasured item for the royal heir.

It was easy now, to lay on the quilt next to his friend, decorum forgotten in favor of gazing up at the indigo sky. Corvo had mentioned his father’s interest in astronomy and pointed out the ‘Feather of Barrowe’ and ‘Gainsford’s Melody’ from a grouping of stars to the east. James himself couldn’t discern the pattern from the rest of the twinkling lights but liked learning about the Attano family’s inner workings anyways.

It came as a surprise, then, when James had quietly asked Corvo if he missed home, that Corvo responded. Not signed, or even written an answer, (they haven’t needed the notebook with just each other in many months,) he _spoke_. Corvo hadn’t turned at all to make his hands visible, and a voice had flitted into the air.

“There’s nothing left for me in Serkonos. Even then I can’t help getting lonely sometimes.” Corvo turned and pinned those impossibly soft eyes on James, who startled at the deep sound. It had a noticeable accent that twisted the words it spoke into little decorative knots. James slowly lifted his head off of the pillows in bewilderment. In the past he tried not to imagine what Corvo’s voice would sound like, it felt terribly rude and as if he saw Corvo as ‘incomplete’ in any way, but the pondering had faded early on. He was too busy thinking about the other parts of Corvo, like his sweet tooth, love of shiny trinkets, and odd habit of climbing anything he could attempt to, reminding James of an antsy house cat. But he hadn’t expected his voice to be so charming.

“...I see. I’m sorry.” Best not to make a big thing out of it. Corvo’s choice to speak is borne from a trust that could break as easily as the fine vases deep in Wei Ghon.

“But I don’t feel lonely around you.” It was overkill now, James felt he would do something very, _very_ stupid if he stayed there, staring at damned Corvo and his damned beautiful hair and beautiful smile and now, beautiful voice and his slim hands within reach yet so very far away. Corvo looked at James with... is that expectation? twinkling in his eyes, and James felt so enraptured by the other. Is this how the celestial bodies feel, bound by unseen forces towards the unflinching Sun, beautiful and terrifying in it’s intensity? James was at the mercy of the Sun’s gravity and felt it very keenly, his body leaning closer and closer until—

“Your Majesty!”

_Damn Brimsley and her fucking heretical sixth sense to the Abyss._

By the time Spymaster Brimsley got to the balcony door, James was standing and ready to listen, face carefully blank while Corvo scrambled up and at attention with his arms folded behind him. Brimsley took in the scene with a raised eyebrow, narrowed hazel eyes raking over the quilt, the throw pillows, a plate of half-eaten fruit, and landing on Corvo, who had shrugged off his coat some time ago.

“I-“ She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Never mind that, you must come see your father at once!”

-

Father is sick.

Well, not now, but he would be soon.

General Turnbull was absent, making it obvious this meeting wouldn’t concern national security or the threat of war, but wasn’t a consolation for much else. Those who _are_ present are a measly few which will be enumerated here:

  * The Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin (now accompanied by a sickness of unknown origin)
  * Royal Protector Jacob Alphus
  * Spymaster Edith Brimsley
  * Royal Physician Alberto Galvani
  * The Emperor’s Lawyer Drusilla Timsh
  * Royal Protector Corvo Attano
  * And James Kaldwin, himself



The Royal Physician said something about a tumor they assumed was benign, that they’ve known for quite some time. James' brows pinched together as he stared at his father, Emperor of the Isles, who sat at his desk looking as strong as always. He tried to match that image to a sickly old man suffering from brain fevers. James could only hope he would be that good at fooling others someday.

“My diagnosis mustn’t leave this room. The people will go into a panic if news of my... affliction gets out.” Ah, yes, his ‘affliction,’ what a _splendid_ way to say ‘cancerous brain tumor’. “Now, preparations must be made, my will is already drafted and-“

“How long?”

“...”

“His Highness is still well enough to conceal it, yet it is an unpredictable illne-“

“ _I said_ , how long.” Father rubbed his brow, sighed a rattling breath, and raised his hand to quiet Galvani before the terse man could launch into a full explanation on what cancer does to a body.

“It could be days or years. But you’ll be taking the throne sooner than anyone expected.”

“And you deigned not to tell me... until it became life threatening?” James didn’t _care_ that Galvani was giving him that stink eye he loved using so much, or that Alphus was looking so pityingly at James, how _dare_ Father keep this from him and spring his imminent death upon his son like it was a last-minute notice for a court appearance.

“His highness thought it best to not worry you until we were certain. The passage of the Crown to you is already in motion, which is what we are gathered for, my Lord.” Brimsley with her steel voice commanded the room, but even she couldn’t hide the lines of worry in her crow’s feet.

“Well. _Thank you_ for finally informing me, really. Is there anything else I should know? Maybe a smoking gun in your drawer, or do I have an older sibling no one knows about?”

“This is a matter of grave importance, James! _Do not_ end this year foolishly when I am asking you to step up and be the ruler I raised you to be.”

_Then why have I just found out about it!? You lecture me on and on about not being able to handle the throne yet never include me in your duties!_

James could have said this. He could have yelled and pointed, letting years of frustrations out on a father who is now actively dying, but he didn’t. One of James’ greatest strengths is his composure, and it does not fail him even now. He feels Alphus’ worried stare, Timsh’s calculating gaze, and Corvo’s silent worry all in equal clarity. These were the people who would see him take the throne soon, he refused to lose his composure and prove their greatest worries, that he can’t handle his responsibilities. He won't be the ruler Father is, he _would_ however become an Emperor worth taking care of his people, he _has_ to. People like the Tower staff and Corvo and Delila-

He breathed in and out once, deeply, to quiet the mess of barbed wire deep in his chest.

“What do I need to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t want this chapter to come off as if Corvo would be better with a voice than if he was completely mute, yknow? and didn’t wanna put too much emphasis on it, James’ reaction is more from Corvo trusting him than his actual voice. any romanticizing is because James is head over heels for every part of Corvo, sparingly used voice included. they’ll still sign to each other unless in private but lemme know if and how this chapter came out wrong and i’ll try to fix it.


	6. 22nd of Ice, 1808

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude.

“Wait up, Delilah!”

“Not my fault you’re too slow to keep up!”

Two children run through great echoing halls. Close in age yet far different in station, an Emperor’s son, a young noble boy chases after his friend, a kitchen maid’s daughter and apprentice. They laugh in tandem and play fabricated games in the sprawling gardens until the noble boy is called in for lessons or court appearances and the apprentice is left wondering what she did wrong to be left behind. Is it because she is a girl? Is James better at looking presentable? But that isn’t fair, he has maids and a closet full of clothes with shiny buttons on them!

She voices such concerns to the noble boy the minute they arise. She trusts him with her thoughts.

“You’re much more polite than I could ever be to those mean old badgers, it’d honestly make sense if you went to court in my place. But it’s _so_ boring and the room is always too cold, even with all the windows shut. I don’t even want to be Emperor if it means going to war with Morley again.”

“...”

“Don’t tell anyone I said that!” The apprentice doesn’t seem content with his answer. “...Why don’t we play that game again? Where you’re a cool magical Empress and i’m an assassin!” At this, she brightens up and the pair run off to the frozen rose bushes, looking for adornments to Delilah’s empress outfit.

The birds sang in the gardens as Breatix Kaldwin took her last breaths during childbirth, for a daughter that would not live to see tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic assumes that James’ parents are older than Jessamine’s due to my age changes (which btw I’m still pissed I had to even do because I hate Jess and corvos canon ages), so both Euhorn took the throne earlier and Breatix died earlier than in canon


	7. 9th of Darkness, 1820

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering how much research I’m doing in writing this just know I frequently look up the dishonored timeline just to actively ignore it

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not, Son. You said you were serious about stepping up earlier than expected, and that includes not only governing your country, but raising a worthy successor as well.” Father looked weary, wrung out in the fading twilight seeping in through the tall windows of the Emperor’s main office.

Because James was looking for the signs now, he noticed Father’s illness affecting everyday life. He stopped drinking Old Dunwall. He rubs his eyes far more. He uses what might be too many medical tinctures meant for easing headaches. He retires to bed later and later every night against the Royal Physician’s orders. Father is likely doing as much work as possible to ignore his current state, a rare similarity between the Kaldwin men, right under blue eyes and a stern facade.

“I’ll consider a... partner when i’m Emperor. There are more important things to worry about right now.” Father chuckled and shook his head.

“You don’t see it yet, but right before ascension is the perfect time to find someone. I invited Lady Moray to many dinners before I took the crown.” Oh, how Father loves talking as if he’ll drop dead in a week.

“Yes, until she rejected your advances and married Lord Preston Moray instead. And then _killed_ him. I think i’ll wait to marry.”

“It’s the principle of the matter, James. Noblewomen clambered for my hand _because_ I only had eyes for her, which brought me and your wonderful mother together.” Father spread his hands out as he talked and intertwined his fingers for emphasis. “Trust me. I know how this works. Some of them may be put off by your demeanor and frankness but many would love a chance to catch your eye.” Father smiled, probably to assure James.

The younger man felt his eye twitch.

“Attending the annual Boyle Masquerade is a must. You were specifically invited and while I, as Emperor, cannot attend, you as my heir are not bound by the same etiquette. Not to mention the truly _heartfelt_ invitation the youngest lady Boyle wrote for you.” For anyone listening in on the Father-son talk, the sarcasm with which the Emperor addresses said invitation is very apparent. Everyone knew Waverly to be, in plain terms, a stuck-up bitch. He can think of so many nobles she’s pissed off by simply telling the truth. The pendleton boys are high on that list, though they ask for it by virtue of being first-grade assholes, and James has come to warily respect her brutal honesty. Well, not enough to court her, but still. Why she even personally asked for him to be in attendance was beyond him. “How could you refuse?”

“Very easily, I think. I would write back to her saying ‘Thank you for the invitation, but I must regretfully decline due to my other burdens.’ End note. And then i’d toss the invitation into the Wrenhaven to rid myself of the memory.” Father stood and walked around his desk, leaning on the edge while facing James.

“Now you’re just asking to get publicly slapped. She’d take high offense to her family’s annual ball being ranked under your busywork.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Cosmos above, you are impossible, son.”

_I’m well aware._

But looking at Father, dizzy and disoriented, though he hides it well, James knows when to pick his battles. Father believes Potterstead reformed him all those years ago, made him an upstanding young man. It’s simply not worth it arguing over a _party_ when his continued resistance in finding a bride could mean getting sent straight to Whitecliff this time. The leniency James was afforded in the past was solely due to his young age— _Stop thinking about it._

“Fine, I’ll go to the Voiddamned ball. But don’t expect me to return with a woman under my arm.” And the Emperor actually smiled at that.

-

While agreeing to attend the Boyle party had it’s uncomfortable drawbacks (i. e. having to convince his father that he was looking for a female suitor), procuring a costume for Corvo and himself was quite fun. The Estate District felt lively even in the cold weather that permeates Dunwall’s sharp stone and metal this time of year. James took a final drag from his cigarette and crushed the butt under his heel.

“Honestly, I’ve no earthly idea what Waverly even _wants_ with me. Surely the throne isn’t that much of a draw. I’d swear she called me a fairy not three years before.” Corvo nodded along, walking a good pace behind James while carrying their bags (he’d _insisted_ on it) while the pair walked along the cobblestone streets. The Estate District is full of expensive shops and high-class citizens, deeming it safe enough for James to walk freely with his Royal Protector sans an entire Watch squad. “We’re here!”

The two walked up to a modestly sized shop, the decorative sign proclaiming it to be ‘Fleet Masks’. Corvo dropped their bags lightly on the sidewalk to free his hands and signed.

_What do we need masks for?_

“Corvo, it’s a masquerade ball. An aristocrat throwing a party is as frequent as rain in Dunwall, but the Boyle party is a sensational event for it’s themes and exclusive guest list. We need full costumes for the evening.” Corvo was looking more dubious of the prospective ball the longer they spent shopping, while James admittedly grew more excited. Indulging in such parties felt tacky and wasteful, but he wanted to have a bit of fun and show Corvo some of the boons of higher society. It’s not like James would be going to any Boyle parties once he’s Emperor. They walked in and the strong smell of burning incense hit their noses. A portly woman greeted the pair upon hearing her shop’s bell ring out.

“Master James! How wonderful to see you gracing my humble establishment, it’s been too long since you’ve last visited. Oh, how you’ve grown!” The older woman came over to clap James on the back before Corvo came in between them with a scathing look. The woman backed up and held her hands up placatingly.

“Good afternoon Mrs. Fleet, this is my Royal Protector. Corvo it’s fine, I know her.” Corvo stepped back warily, dropping their bags by a chaise lounge near the entrance.

“Ah yes, i’ve heard. Your reputation precedes you, Master Attano.”

“Wait, what have you heard- No, not now. We’re here because I was very graciously invited to the annual Boyle masquerade.” James would have time to listen to what rumors surround his Royal Protector later.

“Huh. Never thought i’d see the day that you would actually mingle with people in your station. I’m halfway convinced the Outsider mixed your soul up with that of a bartering fishwife from Tyvia.”

“Haha. Ha. Your humor hasn’t dulled in your advanced age, has it Nancy?”

“Cheeky boy. Well, don’t dawdle, come! I’ll get you two the most scandalous masks the Lords and Ladies will have the misfortune of ever gazing upon.” Corvo looked cautiously at the pair, James really made some odd friends.

-

“Galia! Be a dear and bring our guests some tea!” The woman, Nancy, called towards the back of the shop. “My daughter will be right in. Now, tell me what I can do for you boys.” Corvo, probably feeling bad about viewing the woman as a threat, sat quietly with his hands in his lap. A young girl no older than 9 served the two men tea and left with nary a word, shooting a glare at her mother on her way to the back room. James tried thanking her but she practically flew behind the partition.

“Well, I already have an idea for Corvo.” James handed a scrap of paper over to Nancy, who appraised the drawing before smiling widely.

“And here I thought you didn’t have an artistic bone in your body! The sketch leaves much to be desired but I _adore_ the concept, really fits him. The top hat is a nice touch.” Now Corvo’s looking worried, eyes flitting between Nancy and his charge. “What of your own mask, Master James?”

“I was a bit stumped regarding mine, actually.”

“Now don’t you worry, this is my speciality! What’s this year’s theme?”

“Beasts in black tie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nancy: Here’s the weirdest idea I could come up with. Should I add less blood?  
> james who is weird as hell: wow this is super fucked up. i’ll take it.  
> corvo, a relatively normal person in comparison, watching this unfold: <:/


	8. ??? of ???, 1813

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for conversion therapy here. This chapter is just some religious talk and James twiddling his thumbs in an institutionalized setting and pretending to be “reformed” but if the topic is triggering in any capacity for you there’s a summary in the end note.  
> Again, if anything in here comes off as insensitive, please let me know and I’ll rework/edit/remove it

Potterstead is sunny this time of year, whenever it is. No one would tell him the date so he stopped asking, and lost track weeks ago. The view from the chapel is lovely, too. The bars obstruct some of it but even from the cliffs overlooking white beaches, James could spot whales swimming along the winding shoreline. Their backs glittered in the morning light, free of any whale trawlers to kidnap and gut them this far out. Well.

It’s not like James is wrongly imprisoned here. He technically _did_ do what they are accusing him of: Fraternization of the Same Sex, or something. Who knew an act as simple as a kiss (that isn’t even illegal, just ‘frowned upon for role models of the common people’) could land him several hundred kilometers away from Dunwall, stuck only with other ‘problem children’ and stuffy Overseers for company.

“James!” And that was another difference here. This place was obviously built for noble children due to it’s sheer size and the effort put into rehabilitating children (Overseers mostly just induct or kill any kids they find), but all titles and last names are removed. Here, there is no Lord Kaldwin, only James. It could be worse, in all honesty.

Some upsides to being stuck in the middle of nowhere:

\- The white cobblestone structure and proximity to water could remind him of a summer villa, if he closed his eyes, covered his ears, and imagined he was in a summer villa.

\- The other ‘problem children’ are an interesting bunch. The patients/prisoners/ _whatever_ range from as young as toddlers to older teens, James himself falling in the 13-15 year old bracket for rooming and prayers but mingling with everyone during meals and free time. They were sent here for a number of reasons, for hurting themselves or others, eloping, what counts as heresy (which could be literally anything, according to the Abbey), or even reporting abuse. Nasty business, but he finds more similarities with the disturbed here than the annoying children he’d been forced to socialize with back home.

-The children are a diverse bunch. Sure, they’re all from affluent backgrounds but James has to grasp any part of his situation as a learning moment. Here, there is ~~no Delilah to play with him~~ no Melinda to rub his back— _You’re too old for that, James_ — or Alphus to take him to his friend’s shops or postal boys to listen to. But, there are children with scarred pasts and bleeding presents, with perspectives worth seeing.

\- Nothing here reminds him of Father, who coldly sent him away to be ‘rehabilitated’ with that _look_ in his eyes that was worse than any lecture or slap could’ve been, a look full of vile disgust _what did I do wrong now—_

“Wandering gaze.”

“Sorry, Overseer Higgins, the weather is just simply beautiful. Does the Outsider find himself victims from creating sunny days? No wonder Gristol is such a bastion of faith.” Barely suppressed laughs ring out in the classroom. Not all of the people here are Gristolian, but most get the joke anyways. James’ blank face (which means ‘unrepentant’ to Overseer Higgins) stares at the preacher. What would he do? Call him a heretic? Give him a lashing? Withhold his dinner for a few days? Been there, done that. Overseer Higgins shoots a warning look towards everyone that quiets the giggles and continues with his lecture.

“Everyone has their vices, really, but it is paramount to not let them take control. The Outsider preys on human error.”

-

“You’ve made great progress, son.”

_ Don’t call me that. _

“Thank you, Overseer Jasper.”

“Now, your release is scheduled for a month from today, good behavior withstanding. You’d tell me if you have any urges I should know about, right? We’re only here to help you, to repent, and to banish any heretical influence.”

_ Fuck no. _

“Of course.” It was drab and annoying and uncomfortable in all aspects, talking to Overseer Jasper about his _homosexual inclinations_ and how to best rectify them, but it taught James to be a very good liar in both his words and demeanor.

-

“Give me a hit.”

“Fuck off, kid. This is my last cigarette.” The older boy (17 years old, he found out after trading some of his bread for the information) looked out between the bars of the hallway’s large windows. Marion Brimsley. He’s a spitting image of the Spymaster, from the hazel eyes and deep brown hair to the aquiline nose and blunt anger. He even has the same bad eyesight the Spymaster needs her glasses for, judging by how he squints at anything more than a meter away. The view from the window must be a blurry mess of colors to him. He’s also the one reminder that Dunwall Tower isn’t just some vivid hallucination that James dreamt up for the first 14 years of his life. Or maybe Marion is who he got the inspiration for Spymaster Brimsley. Whatever.

“I’m going to tell your aunt you said that.”

“Heh. Make sure you don’t fall off the talking rainbow pegasus that’ll take you back to the Emperor’s _big_ white castle, who you are _definitely_ related to.” Marion never believed him when he had mentioned the Spymaster, and that was fine. This was just a fun game to Marion, who probably pitied James and his supposed illness. Even the mention of the Spymaster’s full name didn’t convince him, Marion has been here for years and discarded any hope he’d see his family again. Marion is less than a year away from outgrowing this place, and James doesn’t want to find out what they’ll do once that happens. “Who was that girl you were talking to?”

“No one. You know, it’s hard to think if I don’t have a smoke every now and then.”

“Pfft. Well, _no one_ plays the piano beautifully.” And she does. Lydia also plays the harpsichord, clarinet, and harp quite well. She works with a plethora of instruments when the music room is empty of any other children, and James usually sat outside the room to listen so as not to spook the skittish girl. He was content doing this until one day, she abruptly stopped playing the piano and ran out of the room, subsequently tripping over James’ crouched form. Apparently she was late for sermons (James doesn’t know her schedule, Lydia’s 12, meaning she’s in the 9-12 bracket) and he doubled over laughing at the thought of not wanting to miss sermons. The boy’s art of pretending to listen to someone was _perfected_ in sermons. She’s been tentatively spending more time with James ever since.

“Oh, speak of the Outsider.” Marion flicks his cigarette out between the window’s bars and nods his head to the end of the hall. James smiles, turning to see Lydia herself peeking around the edge. She retreats, having been caught spying.

“Good day, Lord Brimsley.” James bows mockingly and runs to the bend in the hallway after his friend, Marion’s quiet chuckles floating into the stuffy mid morning air, chasing his last exhale of smoke.

-

“You shouldn’t hang around him so much. Or at all, in fact.”

“Who, Marion? He’s harmless. I can take care of myself, besides.” Lydia looks at her feet, thinking of how to form her next words. Her feet hover slightly over the ground from her position on the piano bench. She inhales noisily, dragging her deep blue eyes to James, who lounges on a chair near the harp. Lydia taught him some of the strings weeks ago and he’s been getting better every day.

“But he’s a heretic. Not like you or me, a real one. That’s dangerous.” Lydia’s voice drops at ‘heretic’, as if uttering the word would summon Marion, or the Outsider himself, really. Lydia’s a nervous person by nature.

“He probably just got caught smoking bitterleaf, or something.” But James has seen the bonecharm in the Spymaster’s office, held it, and knows truly that he is lying to assuage her worries. “And how do you know _I’m_ not a heretic?”

“Because you’re nice. And well-mannered.”

“I-what? Please don’t tell me you actually believe the drivel these Overseers pass off as education...”

“No, I don’t! I just- I mean... ugh. We don’t get much free time, and you want to spend it smoking tobacco and whatnot with _him_ when we could be composing beautiful music _together_?” James slowly sat up, staring at Lydia, who blushed under the scrutiny.

“Are you... _jealous of Marion_?”

“No! I-“ James let out an incredulous laugh, clutching his stomach.

“You are! Oh Void Lydia! I’ll be sure to draft our marriage certificate once I’m-“

“Stop it!”

_ Slap! _

Lydia stormed out of the music room in a flurry. It wasn’t a hard slap at all, the quiet girl is rather delicate and slow to violence, but the fact that she had touched him at all was worrying. He ran after her immediately.

“Lydia wait!”

-

James found her in the greenhouse. She was sat behind the Daffodil planters, face buried in her knees. He felt his misstep even more keenly now, watching the timid girl silently cry on the padded mud. His reddened cheek stopped aching some time ago.

“...Lydia? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have teased you like that.” He sat down next to her, leaving a small space so as not to crowd her. The younger girl lifted her head slightly and hurriedly wiped her eyes and nose with her shirtsleeves.

“My parents sent me here because I’m ‘moonstruck’, apparently.” _Oh_. People, _kids_ don’t get sent to special places for having a dizzy spell or being forgetful. She must have episodes, or something. James remembers reading about it in a book, but those people lose their sense of self in old age. Children carrying these symptoms are extremely rare, and never so severe to take a child out of their home to a facility. Now that James thinks about it, she does take pills every morning with her breakfast, which he’d assumed were vitamins. But now wasn’t the time to try diagnosing her when Lydia was still teary-eyed in the dirt because of something he said.

“Oh. Well. I was actually... uh, brought here for... something similar.” At this, Lydia’s eyes light up.

“Really? Oh, then you’ll believe me! I haven’t forgotten myself in months, I swear!”

“I-I believe you. I’ll even vouch for you. I’m sorry, again, about making fun.” Lydia looked at him oddly and then turned away, hands wringing over her knees. Lydia’s ears look red.

“Thank you, James, I forgive you. Just don’t go saying that stuff anymore.” She surged forward and hugged him, a quick squeeze with shaking arms before pulling away and getting up, dusting the dirt off of her grey pants. “Come, we’ll miss dinner if we stay here with the flowers.” James followed after her with a bemused smile.

-

When he was brought back to the Tower a changed person with an iron mask for a face, he didn’t speak to Father for months.

_ And he doesn’t ask about the postal boy that he kissed from all those months ago, for the same reason he never asked what happened to Delilah after he broke a vase. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: a 14 year old James is sent to a center for noble children in Potterstead for getting caught kissing a boy. Here he meets Marion Brimsley, 17 at the time and the Spymaster’s nephew who was sent to this place years ago for heresy. He also meets a 12 year old girl named Lydia who plays the piano (among other instruments) and taught James how to play the harp. He finds out she was sent here for being declared moonstruck, a condition of being unable to think or act normally. James learns how to lie well while institutionalized and never sees the boy he kissed again upon returning to Dunwall Tower.


	9. 13th of High Cold, 1820

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alt. title: Lord Kaldwin’s Last Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really tested my description limits and I consider myself more of an artist than a writer, so here’s a quick sketch of their outfits just in case I wasn’t clear enough: https://imgur.com/LMqB3T1

The moon waned in a thin crescent, leaving the streetlights doing most of the work illuminating the cobblestone street. Two men got out of their carriage and walked towards the Boyle Estate’s entrance at the clocktower’s chime of 9 o’clock.

“Invitations, please.” Corvo handed James’ letter to the guard stationed in front of Boyle Manor. The guard studied the two men in front of him. The taller man dressed in a completely black suit with silver embellishments and a navy blue tie, with a half mask resembling a crow. it’s black feathers gleamed in the dim light and a long beak protruded from where his nose would be. A Top Hat sat snugly on the crow’s head at an angle, to top it all off. But his outfit was subtle compared to the other. The shorter man dressed in pure white, save for a silk red sash and gold cufflinks. His costume consisted of a black and white masquerade mask for the upper half of his face, and a golden mask covering his nose and lips with an exaggerated beauty mark on the mask’s left upper lip. If that wasn’t enough, the man had a replica of a swan, it’s throat slit and long neck wrapped around his neck as the body rested on his other shoulder, body covered in flowers and barbed wire. The swan has a beauty mark on it’s left cheek to match.

When Father saw the costume, he scowled, and Brimsley tutted, uttering something about premonitions. (The Kaldwin crest is of a swan, why can’t they see the humor of it all?) Alphus was a good sport about it, at least. They were all far too tense for the evening. Even Corvo was on edge, for some reason.

“Lord Kaldwin and plus one, you both may enter.”

“Corvo, you’re going to have a time tonight, I'll make sure of it!”

They weren’t even late, but enough time had passed by the time James and Corvo arrived for one of the Pendleton boys to be drunk. Or both, or all three, if tonight is special.

“Seems we have some true royalty in attendance, Custis.” The twins wore matching weasel masks with bow ties around their necks, separating fur from skin.

“I believe so, Morgan. Say, how _has_ it been, James? Picking some riffraff off the street and giving it a title? You always were more inclined to charity work than the average nobleman.”

“You should watch-“

“Don’t you two idiots have something else to do besides antagonizing the future leader of the Isles?” And here Waverly is, in all her _glory_ , butting in before James could get a word in edgewise about the twins being too busy jacking each other off to see the fools they were making of themselves.

“Oh great, there’s one too many bitch here for me. Come, Custis.” The twins brushed by James, Custis barking in Corvo’s face before laughing and walking off. Corvo stayed still, scowl on his face (and James forgot how much Corvo’s smile is an enigma to anyone besides him, when he glares so much at everyone else.)

“Pendletwats.” Waverly turned to James, curtsying slightly, her large red dress bending at the movement. She chose a rat mask for the evening, an odd choice, but the rat wore the biggest river krust pearls James had ever seen, and he could appreciate the juxtaposition. “Good evening. Lord, Royal Protector.”

“Ah, hello, Waverly. How’ve you b-“

“My sister made me write to you. She thought you more likely to come if I were the one addressing the invitation. Go talk to her so she can stop _bugging_ me about it.” She swiftly walked into the building. Waverly didn’t even bother saying _which_ sister asked for him. For both of their sakes he hoped it wasn’t Esma, the woman wears her promiscuity on her sleeve and James would _not_ be able to deliver what she’d want. That left the middle sister.

_Lotty? Lorelei? Void, he’s terrible with names._

“Well. I’m sorry about... all of that. I swear there are _some_ normal people among this bunch. Though they’re far and few between.” In James’ defense, he hasn’t actually socialized with anyone outside of the Tower in a long time.

 _I wouldn’t even call_ you _normal. But that’s what makes you so great._ James let out an unflattering snort before muffling his laughter and thanking his mask, hiding what had to be a very prominent blush.

“Ah... maybe. Come on, let’s go inside. I want to see the rumored champagne fountain.”

In the next moment, James now wished that they _weren’t_ wearing the masks, so that he could see the full extent of Corvo’s surprise. He stared in wonder, watching the confetti fall slowly and glittering banners adorn the walls. The mask hides most of the Royal Protector’s facial quirks, but James could see his lips part slightly at the foyer’s lavish decoration, Corvo’s adam’s apple bobbing slightly— _Stop._

_It’s beautiful._

“True, I just wish they weren’t so wasteful with these balls.” Corvo’s expression hardened now. “What, is it something I said?”

_No, someone’s staring at you. She’s trying to hide now._

James inconspicuously turned around and surveyed the end of the hallway, seeing a woman perched near the bend. She retreats behind the corner at having been caught spying. The two men stared, watching the woman look conflicted with herself before emerging from her (frankly terrible) hiding spot, shakily walking towards them. The person wore a mouse half mask and an earthy green dress, the frills dragging as she moved. The dress’s sweetheart neckline complimented her pearl necklace, and the woman’s blonde hair was gathered up in a Driscol crown braid, interwoven with green silk. She’s beautiful, James could admit with an objectivity.

“Ah- Um. Hello- I mean, Pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe we’ve met before?” And with her voice, the memories flooded James, of a humid summer spent in a barred facility with no title and few friends. James gathered Lydia up in a hug, spinning his friend around. He set her down gently, both laughing.

“Lydia! You’re Lydia _Boyle_! Outsider’s arse, who would’ve guessed?”

“Oh please, I'm not the surprising one out of the pair of us. I nearly had an aneurysm when Esma mentioned you. I thought to myself, ‘No way, get your head out of the clouds, Lydia. It couldn’t be.’” Lydia’s chuckles die down when she spots the new face. “Oh! My apologies, I didn’t mean to ignore you, I am Lydia Boyle. You’re the new Royal Protector, I presume?” She holds her hand out, which Corvo shakes as he nods. He doesn’t smile, but that’s normal for him. Lydia seems to take no offense.

“This is Corvo Attano, he’s been my shadow for the past few years. Void, I hadn’t realized it’s been that long. Corvo, this is my old friend Lydia. We met under... odd circumstances.” Corvo doesn’t know about Potterstead and it’s best kept that way. Well, no one does, it was kept a secret. The official reason he wasn’t in Dunwall in 1813 was due to his studies. He imagines the circumstances are much the same for Lydia and anyone else who actually makes it out of there.

“Maybe we could have all met Lord Attano sooner if you left Dunwall Tower once in a while.” Lydia’s tone is joking and she means no harm, but it still hurts to hear. That James is still dealing with the effects and habits of his near-isolation is a hard pill to swallow. It’s easy to forget that people like the tower staff, instructors, and store owners he’s come to know are outliers in his lonely life. But Lydia is a friend, and a genuine one at that, their friendship borne from mutual problems, so he pushes the negative thought aside, compartmentalized where it can’t hurt him.

“Well! Would you be so kind as to show us around?”

-

It was easy, James realized, to fall back into conversation with Lydia even all these years later. She grew into a respectable young woman. You wouldn’t even be able to tell that she suffers from a mind ailment (but the same could be said for James, he dimly realized) and Lydia made every effort in showing James and Corvo around and having _fun_ , acting as a tour guide and proprietor of the grounds. She still has that air of hesitancy and shyness James remembers from those years ago, but she’s clearly grown from then.

_I walked in on Esma fooling around in this coat closet four separate times_

_I play violin here for my father_

_Waverly yelled at me here after I threw up in those bushes when I was 13_

_That balcony leads to the room they lock me in sometimes_

James’ hazy and irritatingly incomplete impressions of his peers seemed true to character, as well. Waverly was skulking because she’s always too _busy_ to do anything besides be annoyed at something, Lord Brisby continues to follow Waverly around a worryingly yet lawful amount, Miss White is still a gossip, Lord Shaw still smokes those Voidawful Tyvian cigars, and Lord Estermont still can’t get laid for the life of him. But, with some champagne in their systems (not Corvo though, he’s too straightlaced to drink in public, apparently) and roasted ox in their bellies, the group end up in the Boyle’s music room, Lydia showing Corvo how to play piano. And he picks it up. Not perfectly, mind you, but better than James would and certainly with a skill that could be refined, given the time and effort.

“Lord Attano, you may just have the makings of a pianist, honestly. I mean no offense, but military men usually don’t know the difference between Drunken Whaler and Moonlight Sonata, most of the time.” Corvo’s mouth tightens.

 _And an aristocrat usually wouldn’t know the difference between their head and ass-_ James slaps at Corvo’s hands quickly, stifling a snort.

“...What did he say?”

“Corvo thinks it’s very admirable that you’ve picked up so many instruments.”

“Why don’t you try, James?”

“Why not? It can’t be any harder than doing tax brackets.” Corvo frees the piano bench as James slides in front of the ivory keys, face deadly serious.

-

James is terrible at the piano. They all know it, by the way Lydia doesn’t even try to hide her giggles and Corvo’s mouth tightens at the noises they refuse to call ‘music’. The clocktower long past chimed midnight and the partygoers have relocated to the grounds or more private areas of the manor, so no one else is nearby to bother the trio. James heard rumor of a seance happening, but he isn’t dumb enough to attend such a thing. Their masks were all long removed, save for Corvo’s top hat sitting on James’ head, as discordant piano keys keep ringing out at uneven intervals.

“No, you’re supposed to-ugh.” Corvo and Lydia flanked him on either side, both peering at the sheet music wondering how James’ playing could be so _off_ without actually saying so.

“I told you, I'm better with strings. I play a mean harp now, you know. Corvo, _tell her_ how good at the harp I am.” His protector nodded at that, turning to Lydia imploringly.

Lydia pushes James to the side and takes a seat on the bench next to him, smoothing her skirts down and looking off into the distance for a moment.

“Corvo, would you be a dear and get us some more champagne?”

“Corvo, don’t do that. I’m a perfectly good amount of drunk already, thank you very much.”

“Fine. Get him some water, then?” James is about to refute if only so Lydia isn’t treating the Lord Protector like a maid, but Corvo is gone by the time he turns around. Void, maybe he is actually drunk.

“He doesn’t have to _fetch_ anything for-“

“I just wanted to talk to you alone, if that’s alright.” James looks at her quizzically, but nods his head for her to continue. Lydia stares down at the keys as if they’d speak to her.

“I... told my sisters about you once I was brought back. I told them about the mean boy, who listened to me play and then talked to me about my problems. They said some silly stuff, teased me. But that’s normal for them. Esma gave me some... interesting advice on what to do but In the end Waverly helped me reunite with you, and for that I’m truly grateful.” James is starting to feel a little bad about his initial reaction to the invitation, but how was he supposed to know it was from the sister of his long-lost friend?

“Why didn’t you just write to me? Getting a letter from you would’ve made me _more_ likely to attend, you know.”

“I wasn’t certain if you’d believe me. And even then, if you’d want to see me. Any reminder of... of that place is painful. And i’ve heard through the grapevine that you... aren’t particularly nice, I guess.” That brings a smile forth on his face.

“I’m only nice to the people who deserve it.”

“People like me?” Lydia is blushing now and looking strangely at him, but James is sure she hadn’t had nearly as much to drink as he did. Corvo was the only true sober one out of the trio, though. He’d tried to assure Corvo it was fine, but the man wouldn’t budge, refusing to partake in a single drink. “James, I feel- I just think... Hrm.” James patiently waited for Lydia to gather her words.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned closer and.

And she kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> corvo after this chapter: *7 Things by Miley Cyrus plays in the background*


	10. 14th of High Cold, 1820

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party’s over and James has to deal with it.  
> alt title: Lying Tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be an eventful chapter, but not a sad one, but listening to mitski puts me in a mood so here we are. I had planned on posting this earlier but boy did recent events distract me. Anyways, enjoy! I had fun with this chapter

James thinks about Lydia. Talented, shy, beautiful, sick Lydia.

He was so _stupid_ , how could he have not noticed this sooner? James assumed her gravitating towards him was borne out of familiarity, nothing more.

Lydia, with a high status and a reserved personality. She could be content with him, he could give her a place in Dunwall Tower with it’s sprawling gardens and grand instruments. Maybe she’d want children, and James needs an heir anyways. They could even find some semblance of happiness in each other, a shared history shrouded in secret and a deep friendship bringing them close.

Father would like her. Alphus would think her charming. Brimsley knows more than she lets on, but wouldn’t find any issue with Lydia regarding security, she’d probably think Lydia too stupid to marry James for anything more ambitious than love. Is that what this is? James feels her glossed lips on his, her slender hands around his neck, and feels nothing.

But he _needs_ someone like her to prove he’ll be a good Emperor, and the Outsider himself is handing him the solution on a silver platter, as depraved as it is using Lydia and her feelings like this. He doesn’t bother considering Corvo’s role in any of this outside of his position as Royal Protector, it’s too painful to think about him. His top hat is warm on James’ head.

As Lydia pulls away James quickly fixes a smile on his face. Nothing too grand, a deceptively shy smile just upturned enough to denote sincerity. Lydia’s eyes flutter open and she looks at him in wonder. The kiss was like ice water on his back, he is instantly sobered now. James doesn’t know which one of them is more surprised, but she finds her voice first.

“I’ve had feelings for you for quite a while. Since Potterstead, in fact. I’d resigned myself to never seeing you again, but here you are...” Lydia could be floating on the stars, for all that she looks like the happiest person in the Isles with a blush tickling her neck as she lightly tugs on loose strands of blonde hair.

He can’t just refuse her confession. James doesn’t know the specifics of her afflictions, a rejection _could_ make her spiral.

“... Here I am.”

“Would you want to stay the night?” She quickly utters the question, looking down at the ivory keys, still fiddling with her stray gold locks. When did Lydia get so _brave_?

“I- I’d love to, but Corvo and I must return to the Tower. He has drills to run in the morning, you see.” A lie, and a stupid, useless one at that. He should just stay the night, maybe sleep in another room for modesty or have sex with her or whatever it is she means by inviting him to stay, but he’s a liar and a coward. He’s decided to take advantage of his friend’s feelings but can’t even fully go through with it yet. “But, I should be available soon, if you’d want to visit the Tower for a tour. The grounds aren’t much this time of year but it’s still a sight to see.”

Lying tongue. Maybe the city will burn to the ground, with a damned heir apparent such as he.

“I understand. That sounds lovely, I’ll see you both out but expect my sisters and I to visit soon.” And she smiles so _warmly_ at him. Fuck.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck-_

He’s going to be sick, a mixture of the champagne and the kiss and the heavy, cloying guilt making an awful mixture churn in his stomach and tint his mouth in saliva. But nothing comes out, because James is good at outright lying but he’s also good at keeping things in.

-

Corvo waits by the entrance outside, no glass of water in sight. He’s looking out at some spot above the bushes, black crow mask back on his face and James’ white mask in hand. Corvo notices the pair and stands, brushing his pant legs off from sitting on the stone steps.

“Corvo, we’re leaving now. Lydia, it’s been... wonderful.” She blushes slightly and nods. That smile doesn’t leave her face once. _Fuck._

“Goodnight, you two. It’s been nice.” Corvo nods at her and turns to leave without a sign or any indication he’s heard James.

 _That’s normal for Corvo, calm down calm down_ calm down calm down calm down.

-

The carriage bumps along the cobblestone street in an unsteady rhythm, mimicking James’ heartbeat. The Tower is about an hour’s ride away, and every minute weighs James down more and more. Corvo studiously looks out at the dark buildings while the heir smokes a cigarette. James finishes it off quickly to shut the upper window and keep the biting chill out, but a cold feeling digs itself under where his heart would be, if he had one. A minute and a half later he pulls another cigarette out of his snuff tin. Corvo noticed the chain smoking a while ago but chooses not to comment on it.

Everyone has their vices, really.

“Are you alright?” Fuck, it wasn’t enough to be here, silently judging James and somehow every decision he’s ever made, Corvo has to speak as well? James is a terrible person, for tricking Corvo into trusting him with anything, especially with the sound of his voice. James’ feet are propped up on the bench opposite, just enough to the left that he wouldn’t be touching Corvo’s thigh. The heir considers lying to him, but remembers the promise they made all those years ago. He doesn’t want to add anymore sins to a day that began a measly hour ago.

“...I’ve been better. It’s fine, nothing I can’t handle.” James finds a genuine smile in himself and offers it to Corvo, who is still studying him like the secret to whale oil is written in James’ eyes. Corvo stopped avoiding his eyes a long time ago. Years ago the Lord Protector remarked that James’ eyes reminded him of a shark’s, at first, and James laughed at the implication that he would ever hurt Corvo. He wonders what his protector sees now. It would be a little infuriating, being looked at with that deep gaze, if James wasn’t so wrung out and Corvo was anyone else. James finished his fourth cigarette and moved to close the upper window again, but Corvo’s quick hand wraps around his wrist. His traitorous heartbeat (that made no noise when Lydia kissed him) picks up. Corvo’s hand is warm and solid, yet has a gentleness to it that James can’t decipher. Corvo’s Midas touch stills the shaking in his hands that even tobacco couldn’t.

“If you don’t mind me speaking in plain terms,” He continues at James’ slight nod, “you should either leave it closed or keep it open, your Majesty. Trying to have it both ways will only hurt you.” Corvo always spoke in a quiet tone when he felt comfortable enough to, and now he was whispering, leaning close to James’ own face. There is an air about Corvo right now, in his eyes and voice, that suggests he isn’t talking about the window. He considers for a second leaving it open to accommodate another cigarette, but feels the biting wind rushing in and Corvo’s warm hand gently holding his wrist back, and reluctantly latches the upper window shut. Curse his fool heart.

Corvo lets go, leaning back against the carriage wall. James wishes he’d held on a little longer, but he could still just reach out and hold Corvo’s hand. He doesn’t. He would have, a few months ago.

Corvo relaxes, his stone gaze returning to track the buildings passing them by, and James realizes how easy it was to forget. To forget that these three insulated years with the Lord Protector were a fantasy, a respite from the rest of his life. A respite that ended an hour ago when he made the conscious decision to chase a woman instead of continuing to pretend there was a chance in the Void that he could _ever_ truly be with Corvo. Not to mention the fantasy in which Corvo would actually return his feelings.

And that is what they are, his gripping, love struck _feelings_ that no amount of ignoring could erase. Ironic, that it took him courting someone else for James to finally admit it to himself.

He loves Corvo. He _loves_ his Royal Protector, Corvo Attano, and there is _nothing_ he can do about it.

How carefree he was just a year ago, when him and Corvo ran off to do whatever they fancied, and James was still in denial, and Father wasn’t dying.

-

They know immediately something is wrong when the carriage pulls into the road leading to Dunwall Tower’s main entrance. There are too many guards out and about at this late hour, and the pair find Alphus waiting for them by the main stairs.

-

Father’s bed chambers were always too empty for James’ taste. A lone painting hangs on the far wall, the late Beatrix Kaldwin watching over them all. The rooms felt especially cavernous tonight, as Father sat in bed rubbing his temples while Alphus explained the situation. A situation that apparently James is the _only_ one to have not been clued into. Even Corvo, who stares at the far wall guiltily, had known about it.

“We received the note a few weeks ago, but it didn’t seem serious at the time. We thought it best to not worry you.” James feels a sense of deja vu from the excuse, but is too angry to comment on it. Alphus looks hesitant to say this, and he should. Void, James is going to lose his mind. “We’ve caught them and they’re being sent to Coldridge as we speak. I’ll be questioning the assassin with the newly appointed Interrogator in a few hours.”

“...”

“And you thought _what_ , exactly? That I would be safer with the Boyles while you all waited here for an assassin that would come and try to _kill me_? Do you all hear yourselves?!”

“Control yourself! Everything I do, I do to protect you! You never seem to _care_ about your own life!”

“I’m not a toddler anymore! You can’t just insulate me in the Tower and then thrust me into random social affairs while YOU deal with the serious matters!” Father, in his nightclothes, looks like he wants to interject but James continues before he can get a single sound in. “I am doing _everything_ you ask of me and you STILL don’t even have the decency to tell me ANYTHING!” The side of James’ fist hits the wall, and Mother’s portrait rattles in it’s heavy frame, shivering from the argument. James makes to leave the bed chambers before he says something truly stupid in his anger. He needs to be better at controlling his temper, but this is too far.

“My Lord it’s best if you stay here! There could be more of them.” Alphus grabs his arm roughly, squeezing uncomfortably. He’s trying to impart his point, but all it’s doing is making James want to skin his bald head clean off his skull. Alphus is so _trying_ sometimes, acting like he isn’t in the most secure building in Gristol with an amateur assassin already in custody.

“You know what? Good, I’d rather be run through with a sword than stay here with _any_ of you for another second!” He shakes off the heavy hand and throws open the double doors, making a beeline for his rooms. His throat is twisted into knots of anger because _how dare they? After everything he’s doing to be taken seriously, something as grave as a threat to his life is kept a secret? And for what?_

James hears light footsteps hurriedly follow.

“Go away, Corvo! I’m sure you’re needed back with the other _adults_.” Corvo’s snapping his fingers now, a signal that he’s signing something, that James ignores. The footsteps continue, and James, realizing he still has Corvo’s hat on, whirls around to take it off and throw it at Corvo, It harmlessly bounces off the taller man’s shoulder before hitting the floor. Fuck, he shouldn’t have turned around, now he can see his pained expression. He’s fidgeting with his hands again. Corvo’s never cried (at least, in front of James) but he imagines this is as close the man would come to it, his guilty brown eyes tearing into James.

Corvo swallows something back and his hands raise. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry the Emperor made me keep it from you. I wanted to tell you but they were treating it like a test for me, and thought you would’ve helped me if you knew._

Great. James is the asshole _again_ , but what else is new.

“... Well, they were right, then. I would bet the entire treasury that Alphus wasn’t under half as much scrutiny when he was chosen. But how can I _trust you_ now?” James’ anger doesn’t leave him at all. It simmers under the surface, but Corvo doesn’t deserve his ire. Corvo slowly comes up to James, until they’re face to face where James has to tilt his head up to retain eye contact. The taller man envelopes him in a hug, and James resists for a measly few seconds before wrapping his arms around Corvo’s middle and placing his head on his Protector’s shoulder. Maybe it’s inappropriate, to be in such a vulnerable position. The Royal Protector is here to die on a blade for the Crown, not comfort the prince who will inherit it. But Corvo’s arms are warm and his breathing is enough to pull James into a state of calm that blankets his tumultuous mind. James is too choked up to say anything, but Corvo isn’t.

“I’m sorry, James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im trying to write James as an asshole, who's actions are explained by his past/trauma/etc. but not excused, if that makes sense.  
> Also! trying to set up a precedent for the decision to send Corvo away to the other isles during the rat plague, by making James unafraid and prideful in the face of his mortality, or something. Just trying to me make sending your bodyguard away on a political mission make sense in context.


	11. 7th of Hearths, 1820

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (no I haven't forgotten about this school is just kicking my ass)  
> I wanna talk about the topic of genderbends real quick! A lot of people (rightfully) believe that genderbends are transphobic. As a trans person I can say with a certainty that there is no singular trans experience, and I can see why so many people see them as transphobic (enforcing two strict gender roles and insinuating that boy and girl are “opposites”) but personally, while so many genderbends are extremely… fetishistic and done because a person wanted to give a male character boobs or turn a female character into a hot anime dude, they were my first foray into gender fluidity, and the idea that gender isn't a set-in-stone concept. I'm still removing the “genderbend” tag, but as I said in the beginning, this isn't that and I never viewed James as a male jessamine, the idea came about because of the "king" heart lines, not because I wanted to make Jessamine a man. Additionally, this fic was never going to enter into explicit content (maybe implied, but nothing on screen) so I want to stress how much this fic isnt a “haha what if corvojess was gay”
> 
> Sorry for the long note, enjoy!

It’s a sunny day when the Boyle sisters visit, for what is now the twelfth time, but who’s really keeping count.

The winter months are ending and with their closure, warmth livens the shrubbery. It makes the walk through the gardens slightly more bearable, but not much else can be said. Lydia has her hands cradling James’ forearm while they walk. Corvo isn’t here, he’s always absent when Lydia and James are together in the palace.

He’s giving them some semblance of privacy but never strays too far, in case something happens. This trend of disappearing (yet never truly leaving, James can swear he senses Corvo’s eyes tracking them) is helping, no matter that James feels most at peace when his Royal Protector is near. The distance is necessary, especially after their hug. He has yet to stop thinking about it, about Corvo’s arms around his back, about Corvo’s hand in his hair, about Corvo’s face pressed into his hairline—

She smells strongly of perfume, which burns his nose and he struggles to hold back yet another sneeze. It smells more like something Esma would wear than Lydia. Today is, blessedly, one of his days not spent in an audience chamber. Try as Father might, _some_ work is being passed onto James.

“Is something wrong, darling?” Lydia looks at him in concern. Her hands tighten almost imperceptibly, and her dark brows lower. _Darling._ “If this is a bad time, I'd completely understand.” And Lydia’s been so _considerate_ these past few months too, which is making this much, much harder for James than it ought to be. Lydia’s intense, almost innate respect for people’s boundaries is a wrench in his plans. She buys his honeyed words well enough, but senses something is off, though she can’t pinpoint what exactly. She sees when he shies away, his unresponsiveness to her lips, his lack of interest in touching her.

Maybe the difficulty in romancing her is what he deserves, a way to repent for years of heretical thoughts and continued lies. Lying tongue, errant mind, wanton flesh. Lydia would laugh gently behind her hand if he told her that. The part about repenting, not about forcing himself to love her. “.... Hello? Still there?”

“Sorry. Just a spat with Father the other day. Nothing to worry yourself over.” James takes the path in consideration as they walk, taking care to not step on the seams between tiles.

“... Again?”

“Things have been... shaky recently. It’s to do with the crown so I can’t disclose details, unfortunately.” And that is the first truth he speaks today, because things with Father have been strained for years, really, but while Father welcomes the Boyles with open arms he still narrows his eyes at his son’s every misstep, especially after his... blow up after he found out about the assassin’s note. But now James can ignore that mess and be with Lydia, because tonight he has plans to execute, for this will be the first evening in a long while not meeting with advisors. He could be starting earlier, but Lydia sprung a surprise visit upon him. Lovely.

“I’m sorry to hear that. His majesty is so pleasant, usually.”

“That’s because he likes you.” Lydia blushes and giggles at that. There are more similarities between father and son than James cares for.

“What a lucky woman I am, to have the favor of both Kaldwins.” James laughs along to keep up appearances, but can’t contain the bit of hysteria that seeps in at the irony.

-

Spymaster Brimsley’s timing is, as always, deeply inconveniencing.

If she were requesting James’ audience for something _important_ , something that he can do to aid in finding out why he was almost killed, then he’d gladly listen. But this isn’t about anything important, it’s about his ‘state of mind,’ or some other waste of time. Brimsley waves Corvo out, even, though the Lord Protector looks to James for permission before leaving.

“...I’ll meet you in my chambers. This shouldn’t take long.” That last part is pointed more towards Brimsley, as Corvo nods in acquiescence and leaves. He levels a look at the old woman, waiting for her to begin. It isn’t like Brimsley to mince words, so this really shouldn’t take that long. She runs her fingers across a window sill, gazing out at Dunwall’s jagged skyline.

“Hard as it may be to believe, I worry for you, Lord James.”

“...”

“Stop giving me that sour look, boy. I’m trying to _help_ you.”

“If we could please get through this today?” Brimsley throws a weak glare his way and sighs before continuing.

“His majesty’s illness is affecting him in so many ways, and yet he refuses to acknowledge so. I’ve tried to help, but can only do so much for him. His state of mind is only exacerbating the illness. This new normalcy isn’t doing either of you any favors.”

“What are you asking of me? I’ve been trying to get Father to alleviate his burdens, as you’ve no doubt seen.”

“Your duties to the Empire will come after. I want you to address the root of the problem.” James’ hands tightened on the chair’s arms. “Talk to him.” _Of course_ he would have to be the one to instigate. Be the fucking adult. He can’t get angry, he _is_ an adult, at this point. He will nod, and listen, and be kind. People’s lives will _depend_ on it when he ascends the throne.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him when I have the time.”

“I’m asking you to deal with this _now_ , my Lord, before he... passes. Whenever that may be.” A pang of guilt makes itself known before being buried away. Father’s been bedridden on days he doesn’t appear in court, writing missives and stamping laws while his hands shake. “He feels guilty, you know.” Brimsley explains further at James’ confusion. “About... about everything, I suppose. It’s the shame that keeps him from telling you, but he regrets what he did.”

“Why is this coming up now?” James does not have to ask what she means now, he’s perfectly aware of the Elephant in the room.

“I had a nephew, once. I don’t know where he is now, probably some island off of mainland Morley or maybe even Pandyssia, for all I know.” James sucks in a breath, willing Brimsley to stop talking. “He tells me about his life, through letters he’ll send periodically.”

James is out the door before Brimsley can say another word, whatever she wanted to leverage against him gone in the wind because how _dare_ she? How dare she use his past against him as some bargaining chip to get James to magically forgive his Father. _So fucking what_ if the man’s on his deathbed sick? Why Brimsley thought reminding him of his past would stimulate any sudden affection for the Emperor is beyond him.

An Overseer, waiting outside for Brimsley’s office to be vacated, watched the heir’s measured strides as James disappeared around the bend.

-

Night fell upon the grounds as two figures made their way to Coldridge, the high-security prison reachable only through the palace. Corvo noticed his sour mood and prodded, to which James readily avoided talking about. Corvo can’t hold the burdens of his family’s struggles. He’ll talk to Father, he will.

_Any interference?_

_No. Alphus is with the Emperor and the extra guards were pulled back to their usual rotations last week._ Corvo’s name sign for Alphus is the letter A followed by the sign for ‘bear.’ Corvo is very good at coming up with name signs, James had found out in their partnership’s infancy. Brimsley’s is the letter B and the sign for ‘spyglass’, Father’s is simply ‘king’, and James’ own name sign is the letter J followed by ‘swan’... it’s rather endearing. The sign is gaudy, and Corvo joked that it properly represents the heir, for the ability to be eye-catching.

James still hasn’t thought of a name sign for Corvo, who’s friends and squadmates in Karnaca used the sign for A (for Attano) followed by ‘dickhead’. It doesn’t take a genius to know what the vulgar sign means and so they still lack a name for Corvo that wouldn’t attract stares in the palace.

 _Good. Less people to wonder what we’re doing._ It’s easier for the pair to commit to only signs as they make their way to Coldridge. They aren’t sneaking in per say, the heir apparent and his Lord protector are completely within their rights to visit Coldridge and anyone housed within it. If they take a hidden route, or avoid the eyes of the more alert guards, well, who’s to say it was on purpose? If Corvo grabs his hand at points and steps closer to hide the two, what explanation would be less damning?

Getting in is easy, the guards know not to outright refuse James entry if he gives a good-enough-sounding reason for wanting to be there, which he easily pulls out of his ass,

‘We’re in the business of conducting surprise searches’

‘Leaving the Tower to see what actually happens under my family’s rule will do me some good’

‘We are authorized to speak with a prisoner’

‘That’s classified’

Looking inauspicious to the watchful eyes of head Watch officers is challenging, yes, but walking the halls is difficult in a completely different kind of way. Damp, dirty air clings to the stone at every point. The dank air changes as they go deeper, like the prisoners affect the atmosphere somehow. James wonders how he would affect the air.

Cell block F8 is in a quiet area, and James finds out a great deal about the assassin sent to kill him. James (possibly naively) believes that torture doesn’t work. So, he talks to the person through the bars and gets them food and better blankets, with no expectation for an answer outside of asking plainly. They’re thin and tall, foolhardy, young, can’t be older than 17. This person took a contract on him, of all things. Apparently that’s normal, for a figure of his standing. The Emperor has his own share of bounties in the underground, the child hinted. Apparently, this isn’t the first time someone’s tried to off him, and it surely won’t be the last. He should be taking everything the assassin says with a grain of salt, but It’s plain to see this isn’t an assassin, really. Just a desperate person with nothing to lose. They cough periodically and James asks the cell block’s head officer what his history, charges, and sentence are. It’ll take some work getting him off the execution row and out of Coldridge, but James has never been good at backing down when other people are at risk, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot will skip around the timeline, i'm not detailing every part of James' life because that would be super boring
> 
> Also thank you for the comments!!! I didn't expect any reception on this so seeing you guys interested in this is really motivating!


	12. 15th of Songs, 1820

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this time and longer wait I know, but now I'm writing multiple chapters at once instead of chapter by chapter, so overall more progress is being made on finishing this beast.  
> (blows kazoo) we hit 20k words! I thought this fic was gonna cap at 10k but now I'm only around halfway through the plot! Dunno how to feel about that!

Another note. Actually, a tip off, this time. Someone was hired to kill James, but this time, the Emperor actually told him about it. James imagines this is the closest to a first step as he’ll ever personally see from the older man, and sucks it up to talk to Father the way Brimsley insinuated. A serious assassination attempt is hardly credible even under trusted information, especially without any political backing, so this note is more an opportunity than an actual threat on his life.

Corvo is relieved of his duties for the next few hours to do... whatever it is he does when he isn’t working. James had asked once, and Corvo didn’t have a real answer. He never wants to stray too far from his charge, and Dunwall’s tourist hubs don’t appeal to Corvo. Even the rich lifestyle that his new station affords him isn’t so thrilling. Corvo always says that James is his tether to Dunwall, that he can’t imagine living here without him, even with the status and splendor. James’ heart clenches at that, and later at night he has to keep from crying, for some odd reason. He wishes his heart was more like his brain, sometimes. Logical and smart. His brain knows how to pick his battles.

-

“How is your head?”

“I’m more concerned about yours, Son.” Void, this isn’t going to be easy. James is in the Imperial chamber’s bathing room, scrubbing his sickly father’s back. The maid looked shocked to see him come in and take over for her, but obliged, handing the sponges over.

“Changing the subject won’t work. How was that artist? Allen Somelaut was his name?” Father’s sight is going; His condition is exponentially affecting him, now. He doesn’t have long, if the older man’s thin frame is anything to go by. It’s starting to sink in, that his father has an expiration date. The older man coughs once and chuckles. James’ arms are starting to burn, shaking in exertion. His bunched sleeves start to slip and he has to roll them back over his elbows.

“Anton Sokolov. He’s smart and brash as they come, unapologetically Tyvian. Stubborn, too. He reminds me of you.” James grimaces at that, from whats he’s heard of the elusive _genius artist_ , that isn’t a compliment. “The man screams arrogance... but he’ll be a good ally for you to have.” James soaks the sponge and is about to raise it again, but his father halts the movement.

“What, is something wrong?”

“Listen well, James. I know what I look like. A sad, frail old man of a king.” He pauses to just breathe, and James puts the sponge down, bracing for whatever it is his father wants to impart. His knees are starting to ache on the marble floor. “You have an obligation to the needs of the common people, but you also need to take care of the people close to you. You’re already aware of the bond formed even between those unrelated by blood... these people are family. That includes Spymaster Brimsley. She’s done so much for us, for _you_ , I want you to know that.” The more Father talks the less predictable his next word is. James is now staring in open confusion, brows knitted together. Father looks as if he’s going to continue speaking, but looks off and shakes his head.

“What is it?”

“I-never mind that. How is the Boyle woman?” _Fuck_.

“She’s _fine_. I’m _fine. Everything is fine_.”

“Hmph. You’re usually a better liar.” James is about to interject, talk about the ache in his knees or the objective facts about Lydia’s beauty, but Father continues. “Don’t think I don’t know. I was... I was wrong to try and hide you away.” James is, at this point, too shocked to make a snide remark and his father is aware of this fact, capitalizing on it. “I should’ve known that that place wouldn’t change you. Now, you’re putting up a front for everyone. I’m not so gone that I can not see it-“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words are uttered through a clenched jaw. His molars are complaining over the pressure but it’s a paltry sacrifice in the face of his anger. He’s dealing with ten different obligations at all times, minding advisors and entertaining the Boyles and not looking directly at his protector, for fear of going blind at the intensity. Father sighs, and James knows that the air escaping his sickly father’s lungs is weak.

“You’re my son, James. You always have been. The choices you’re making right now? They’ll come back, years from now.”

“Where is all of this coming from?”

“I just ask that you be honest to Lydia. She’s a kind woman, not the kind of person that deserves whatever it is you’re playing at.” James grabs the bucket and dumps it in the wash basin, scrubbing out the soap water furiously while getting his breathing under control. Deeply in and out. What does he know about fidelity? Who is Euhorn Kaldwin to lecture his son on treating a woman right after what he's done to the late Empress consort? “We are not bad people, James, but that does not exempt us from doing bad things.”

-

Lydia is going to be staying at the Tower for a few days, her wide brim hat flapping as she comes over to hug James. His father’s words from earlier twirl around them, flowing through the air like silk. It would be very easy to let the breeze carry the sentiments away but James is left clutching at them. The hug is a quick squeeze and she lets go, Lydia smiling up at him tiredly and nodding her head in greeting at Corvo, who lets his brow ease for a moment in acknowledgement. James welcomes Esma and Waverly, just as a good host and a good suitor to the Boyle family would.

“James, can we talk?”

-

They’re in his rooms when Lydia drops her smile.

“Lord Protector, would you mind waiting outside? I’d like a private talk.” She looks uncomfortable asking this, considering Corvo’s job description boils down to not leaving James alone, but he relents and leaves them be. The man glances back at Lydia with a soft gaze for a moment before closing the door. James is staring at the door for a second too long when he realizes Lydia is speaking.

“-Don’t mean to phrase this wrongly, so I apologize in advance for any offense, but... I don’t know what you’re doing, James.”

“I... What do you mean?”

“I just...” Lydia’s brow furrows and she looks down, her hands wringing themselves and wrinkling her white gloves. James remembers years ago when the Abbey went on a craze against covered hands when he was twelve, citing the Outsider’s influence manifesting in the hands. It coincided with a string of high-profile murders, suspected to be the cause of a heretic. Of all the things to focus on,  _ gloves _ was what the Abbey chose to suspect.

“You don’t love me.”

“What? O-Of course I do.”

“No, you’re just pretending to. The last thing I want is to force you to love me, but I want to know  _ why _ . I can’t handle not knowing.” She unclasps her hands and sits down in an armchair, looking up at James with honest eyes and lips pursed in a stern line. James is about to lie, to weave honeyed words about her beauty and calm nature, to cite their shared history and deep bond. But then he thinks about his father, and realizes, numbly, that he isn’t the amazing actor he believes himself to be. He walks over to the cabinet and takes out a bottle of Old Dunwall and two glasses, clinking together in an unsung melody.

“Alright."  He sits across from her, heart laid bare.  "I’ll give you the truth. You deserve at least that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia is still both of their friend, but she needs some time.


End file.
